


Late, Not Never

by PromisesArePieCrust



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 20:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12349701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust
Summary: She’d seen enough men with his profile and gait in the last eight months that she should be immune by now. Still, the thrill that reaches her toes is unavoidable-- treacherous beast that her body is. She straightens her shoulders and tosses her head; for, even if it were Detective Inspector Jack Robinson pensively loping along the Seine toward her (it isn’t him, she knows rationally, but even if itwere), she has no desire to talk to him.Re-posting my 2016 Ficathon piece. For theblueswallow, from her prompt: "Jack arrives in London but Phryne has already left, assuming he did not "come after her."  Instead of his reunion with her, he arrives at the Fisher residence, the entire household in financial disarray as the stock market begins to crash.  Will he follow Phryne?  Or help her parents?"





	Late, Not Never

  


Paris, May 1930

She’d seen enough men with his profile and gait in the last eight months that she should be immune by now. Still, the thrill that reaches her toes is unavoidable-- treacherous beast that her body is. She straightens her shoulders and tosses her head; for, even if it were Detective Inspector Jack Robinson pensively loping along the Seine toward her (it isn’t him, she knows rationally, but even if it _were_ ), she has no desire to talk to him. 

It is late spring in Paris, the sun is shining, and she is pointedly _not_ going to pine over a thoughtless, over-proud, cowardly...well, she doesn’t even care to think about him long enough to insult him. 

She briskly walks through a narrow street toward a cafe, pausing at the corner to close her eyes gratefully at the warm sun and cool breeze. The world is in chaos, and she sometimes teeters toward it, but a deep breath and some clear thinking usually puts her to rights. And excellent coffee never hurts.

She had happily left her parents in England after New Year’s, when it was clear that they were reconciled to each other as best could be expected and still financially sound after the Crash. And once she received an infuriating letter from the aforementioned cowardly, thoughtless…. _breathe_ …. from the Detective Inspector, there was nothing keeping her in England. A particularly dramatic fight with her father settled matters, and Phryne left for Switzerland, first to visit Jane at school, then to luxuriate in the natural beauty of middle-Europe. 

After several weeks and stuffed to the gills with natural beauty, she headed here, to Paris, for its art, architecture, and the few remaining friends from her ambulance unit. All of these things have kept her busy for going on four months, though she is beginning to feel an eagerness to return to Melbourne, her work, and her chosen family. Jane will finish her term in another few weeks, they will travel back together, and Phryne can put England far behind her, including her bloviating, unfaithful fiend of a father. How things might change with the Inspector upon her return, she can’t be bothered to worry about.

She takes an outdoor seat at the cafe, facing the pavement. The shockingly pink blooms that climb the trellis on the terrace beg her to be cheerful. 

_My garden has bloomed impressively this year, its beauty at odds with my internal state, at my sadness at not being able to come after you…_

She freezes, then shakes her head, clearing mental cobwebs. (How the hell had she memorised his damn letter?) With forced cheer, she orders a Greek coffee.

_You have moved mountains, dear Phryne, and I shouldn’t have doubted you would--the time off from the commissioner granted amicably, no doubt with the...encouragement...of your aunt, not outdone by the surprise of a ticket waiting for me at the counter when I went to inquire._

She sighs, sipping at her coffee, watching another trenchcoat and fedora flash past.

_I am in an impossible situation. My wallet can’t manage the cost of the passage, but my pride can’t handle the idea of you paying for it. Phryne, your offer is generous and your invitation endlessly enticing, but I must refuse._

With that, she finishes the last of her coffee and slams the cup a little too forcefully on the table, creating a stir amid the mellow atmosphere. Grinning somewhat sheepishly at the waiter, she pays, then heads to her appointment at the milliner’s. 

\------- <3 <3 ---------

Throwing her packages on her bed, and, with a dramatic heave, throwing herself next to them, Phryne mulls over the day. Errands done, wardrobe fortified, dinner plans arranged. She should also probably telegraph her parents, if only to let them know she will be returning to Australia soon, though the thought of contact with them rankles.

When she hears a knock on the door she marvels at how eager the milliner is to impress--she’d been there only a couple hours ago. Could he have made the customisations she’d asked for already? Apparently so. She rises from the bed, removing her hat and gloves, and opens the door to the porter.

Or, opens the door to whom she expects to be the porter. 

Without sparing a glance toward the door, she calls behind her, “You can just put them on the bed next to the other packages. I’ll sort them out after dinner.” 

She hears the person enter the room, and, at the sound of the door closing, turns around.

She doesn’t speak for several seconds after that, feeling the world shift, feeling her mind reel, feeling his gaze sink into her. 

She finally breathes: “Jack.” 

“Hello, Miss Fisher.”

“I thought…” she stammers, then pauses and gathers up all of her reserve anger; for she should be--she _is_ \--very angry with him.

“I sent a telegram. I found it at your family home,” he says gently, explaining. 

He reaches into his pocket and hands her the small piece of stiff paper, dated after she had already left. 

She reads: “ _I AM A GREAT DAMN FOOL. I ARRIVE 23 MARCH. -JACK_ ” 

“That was months ago now,” she says, eyebrow raised, stifling a rush of affection.

“You didn’t send your parents a forwarding address.”

“That does rather defeat the recuperative purpose of a Swiss spa,” she agrees.

Jack reaches toward her, not aiming for anything in particular, only to feel the solidity of her. She has been a spectre for so many months; she has always lingered, despite the indisputable fact of her absence: sounds of roaring engines, smells of fashionable perfumes, clues his constables missed that he knew she wouldn’t have--they crowded him and haunted him, first in Melbourne, then in her family home in England. 

He paws at her gently, blindly, touching her forearm with one knuckle. She struggles to maintain the neutral expression that she ardently believes she must. After all, if he was so easily deterred from coming to England in the first place, it shows little promise for a future togeth… for _whatever_. She recuperates, just as his knuckle unfolds, sliding a finger down to her wrist. She looks just past his ear, strategizing, as the finger becomes the rest of his hand, pulling her subtly toward him.

They are inches apart. “It was a big request,” he says, the whisper of his breath seriously disturbing her equilibrium.

“I only challenge the people I feel are up for it,” she responds honestly. She finally looks at him directly.

“I disappointed you, Miss Fisher?”

It is a perfect question, and she gives him full points for it. She had made it clear both from her initial invitation and further correspondence that she had little invested in the outcome: ‘Come, or not, Jack Robinson; there is a whole world out there.’ If she says yes now, her cards are on the table, her heartache and vulnerability on display. If she says no, this game of unimpressed stoicism seems rather silly...which, as his forehead leans toward hers, she realises in a spectacular flash of insight that it is. 

“I suspect there are ways you could return to my good graces,” she simpers, answering his question without answering it, touching her nose to his. 

“I am greatly relieved,” he whispers, sliding his hands around her waist and kissing her soundly.

\------- <3 <3 ---------

Pink cheeked and contented, reclining naked on the bed and lazily tracing circles on his chest, she looks up at him.

“We have a few more weeks. Would you like to linger in Paris, or should we see more of the Continent?” 

“Either of those sounds wonderful…”

“...but…”

“...but, I’m afraid...I’m afraid we have to return to England,” he manages slowly. She levels him a stare as he continues uneasily, “I don’t come bearing great news.”

She sits up immediately.

“What has he done?” she seethes. 

“Some speculation. We’ve mostly stemmed the flow,” he hastens to assure her. “I don’t know the extent of it, your father hasn’t been especially coherent. But from what your mother and I were able to piece together, and with the help of the solicitors....”

She listens in shock, and then the penny drops. 

“You haven’t been looking for me for these months, you’ve been helping them.”

“I don’t know what _help_ I actually was--”

She cuts him off with a full, deep kiss. “You _are_ a great, damn fool,” she mutters, abruptly pulling the duvet off of them and leaping out of bed. 

“For you, it seems, yes,” he replies, grimacing at the shock of cold and rolling out of bed a little grudgingly. If to England it was, to England it was _right now_ , apparently.

She is, as ever, as jarring as a trip on The Great Scenic Railway; and he realises with a small smile that he is looking forward to the ride.

  



End file.
